


In Vino Veritas

by Janieshi



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Blabbermouth Hughes, Chatty Drunk Hughes, Female Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Melancholy Drunk Mustang, Nosy Gracia, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 09:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16447688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janieshi/pseuds/Janieshi
Summary: Or, the one in which Gracia is a formidable interrogator in her own right and Riza has to think fast to keep her secrets more or less secret.





	In Vino Veritas

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended as an epilogue to Scar Tissue, which I've posted here on AO3 as a chapter of Pistols. I think it can be read as a stand alone without too much confusion. The only thing you really need to know is that I've decided that Maes Hughes is the only other living person who knows about Riza's tattoo (at this particular moment, at least) and was in fact there for the tattoo-burning party.

"I'm so glad you were able to meet me, in spite of the late notice," the pretty brunette said.  She flashed a charming smile as the waiter set drinks on the table.  It was quiet in the small cafe, for which her blonde companion was extremely grateful.  Most of the places she had passed on her way here had been overflowing with a boisterous lunch crowd.

"So am I," was all she said, offering a small but sincere smile of her own.  Having so few female friends, and even fewer _civilian_ female friends, Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye had been genuinely pleased when the older woman had called to invite her out to lunch. "It's a nice change of pace to get out of the office and away from the guys on my break."

"It must be!” Gracia Hughes agreed brightly.  “I've heard Roy complain a few times, saying that they act like a bunch of overgrown schoolboys." 

"Those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones," Hawkeye answered dryly, raising an eyebrow.  Gracia laughed aloud.

"Oh yes, and Maes was quick to point that out when he said so, too, which started quite an argument.  In the end, the only thing they would agree on was that the place would fall to ruin without _you_ there to keep everyone in line."

“I probably shouldn’t confirm the accuracy of that assessment,” Hawkeye said, smiling, “but I can't in good conscience deny it either.”  The whole damn military probably knew it to be true, but hearing it said aloud was gratifying all the same.

"I’m certain your efforts don’t go unnoticed, my dear,” Gracia said.  “You give Roy and Maes more than enough reasons to be appreciative. Oh, and speaking of which," she added, "I really wanted to thank you again for driving my wayward husband home the other night.  I know he can be rather a handful when he's been drinking."  Now there was the understatement of the year.

"No worse than my boss, I can assure you," Hawkeye chuckled, wrapping her cold hands around the mug of coffee she'd ordered.   "Although, the colonel tends to be more of a melancholy drunk," she mused.  Depressing, but more predictable than his friend.

"Yes, my husband belongs to the tearful and overly affectionate, 'I love you guys' type of drunk," Gracia acknowledged.  "I suppose the melancholy sort are easier to manipulate, in their way."

"Well, the colonel is certainly easier to pour into a cab.  Your husband requires a bit more...finesse," Hawkeye said diplomatically.  Finesse like peeling him off of the poor master sergeant being slowly and cheerfully suffocated in a brotherly hug and preventing him from latching onto anyone else while you drag him unceremoniously out of the bar.  Or finesse like tolerating in seething silence the loud, off key song being belted out bare inches from your ear while trying to concentrate on making it to the car—while bearing most of the weight of a man twice your size that cannot walk straight without leaning heavily on your shoulder for support.  Finesse like refraining from breaking the hands that have unintentionally landed on inappropriate parts of your anatomy, while reminding yourself that the man is intoxicated and has not realized exactly where his hands _are_ , and that you're the one who tried to catch him rather than let him fall and crack his thick skull on the pavement when he tripped over the curb in the first place...

Something of Hawkeye’s thoughts must have been visible on her face, because his wife was giggling, understanding exactly what Hawkeye hadn't said aloud.  As the man’s wife, she'd surely experienced most of these situations herself at some point in their relationship.

"Oh goodness, isn't he ridiculous when he's been drinking?  Just do me a favor and never allow him to sing karaoke if you can help it.  Once he's on stage, he refuses to leave.  It took three people to drag him away once." 

"We learned that the hard way a few weeks ago, unfortunately,” Hawkeye admitted.  “He kept insisting that Colonel Mustang sing a duet with him, and the colonel flatly refused.  By the time we wrestled the microphone away from him, he'd nearly started a riot.” She smirked.  “I'm pretty sure the two of them have been officially blacklisted from that particular bar, though, if it makes you feel any better."

“Yes. Yes, it does, actually," Gracia answered.  "But wait a moment...you _are_ still assigned to Roy’s command, right?"

"I am, yes," Hawkeye replied, slightly startled by the abrupt subject change.  "Why do you ask?"

Gracia paused a moment, placing a finger on her lips.  "Oh, it was just something odd that Maes said the other night...I must have misunderstood.  And, well, he had been drinking quite a bit, so you have to take everything he says with a grain of salt, anyway," she smiled indulgently.

"Oh, was he going on again about transferring me to Briggs?" Hawkeye rolled her eyes. "He teased Colonel Mustang non-stop for about a week after I received that open-ended offer from Major General Armstrong." That had been a trying week, with Roy shooting her furtive, wounded puppy-dog looks every few moments as though afraid she might accept the offer and disappear without saying anything to him.  As if she'd be able to apply for a transfer in the first place without going through her direct superior.  He'd given her a nasty little death glare when she'd finally pointed that out, but at least he'd stopped pouting afterwards.

"Oh, no," Gracia replied, adding another cube of sugar to her tea. "Though I do recall my husband talking about that.  Goodness, those two...but no, no, this was something else.  He was trying to justify coming home so plastered on a weeknight.  I believe his excuse was that he needed to cheer Roy up.  Claimed he was in a foul mood because of your tattoo," she said, stirring idly.  Her companion nearly choked on her coffee, but recovered herself before the older woman had looked back up at her.

"My what?"  The incredulity in her tone was not feigned, though she had to carefully arrange her expression into one of polite confusion as panic surged through her chest.  She'd never thought she’d need to worry about Hughes’s discretion.  How much had that besotted idiot spilled to his wife?

"Now what did he say?" Gracia was tapping the table top with one finger absently. "Let's see...Roy was all upset or depressed because he didn't know whether you'd gotten a tattoo before or after he left, or when he wasn't there, or something along those lines."

Well, _fuck_.  Was he honestly brooding over that _again_? It was something he’d never asked her about before: exactly when the tattoo had been put into place.  And she didn’t really like thinking _or_ talking about it.  But it seemed she would need to, and soon, if the idea that he could have protected her from it somehow was sending Roy into an alcohol-soaked tailspin of guilt.  What had brought that up suddenly?  She couldn’t think about this here, not now, with Gracia watching her every breath with the single-minded focus of a bloodhound on a fresh trail.  Looking into those cheerful hazel eyes, Riza decided that Gracia Hughes was a far more fearsome interrogator than her husband. 

But she was used to lying about her past, so she just snorted a little and reached for her drink nonchalantly.

“I wonder who put the idea of a tattoo in his head?” she huffed, all lighthearted irritation. Her acting skills would fool _almost_ anyone—Roy was the only person who knew her well enough to spot when she was faking.  Internally, she vowed to beat Hughes into a bloody pulp the next time she saw him. "Last time I took a few days off, they all had the colonel convinced I'd eloped with an old flame and told everyone about it except for him,” she improvised quickly, knowing that the best lies were the ones with a grain of truth to them.

And this one was true, though it had been the other way around. Mustang had been bored without Hawkeye around to keep his focus on his work, so he’d started up a rumor to amuse himself.  He'd had his whole team believing that their beloved Lieutenant had been formally discharged from the military, gotten herself married to an old boyfriend, and moved away with him to Creta.  Their reactions when she walked in the following Monday had ranged from exclamations of joy to wolf-whistles to gruff pats on the back.  Havoc had been about to embrace her, she was sure of it, but had checked himself when he saw her reaching for her weapon.  And then somehow she'd found herself promising that if she ever were to marry, they'd all be invited to her wedding.   

“Convinced you’d eloped?  You’re kidding!” Gracia cried. Hawkeye didn’t miss the flash of disappointment in her eyes.

"I wish I were,” she sighed.  “I honestly don’t know where they come up with this stuff.  I don’t suppose Hughes happened to mention what this tattoo of mine is supposed to be of?" She had to tread very carefully, here, so Gracia wouldn’t catch on.  If that idiot Hughes had even _hinted_ at it, she'd kill him.  She didn't care if it was only Gracia; the more people who knew, the more dangerous this became for her _and_ Mustang.

"No, he didn't get that far," she replied with a tiny frown. "He actually interrupted himself and begged me to promise I wouldn’t tell anyone.” 

_Interesting._ Hawkeye thought _.  He **was** drunk, after all, and Gracia is his wife. The only secrets he actively keeps from her are related to Ishval...maybe I won’t actually murder him in his sleep.  Maybe just a flesh wound._

“Of course, if it’s meant to be a secret, then I wouldn't _dream_ of mentioning it to anyone, excepting you, obviously,” Gracia was saying.  “To be perfectly honest, I was going to ask you what the tattoo was of," she admitted sheepishly. Her romantic imagination had conjured up some sort of ambiguous pattern of initials and dates significant only to the young sniper—and which would incite the jealousy of her commanding officer.  Why else would he be so depressed about a little body art?   

"Sorry, can’t help you with that.  I do wonder what the rumor mill has come up with, though," Hawkeye murmured. Gracia pouted a little, trying to hide her disappointment. Her husband’s odd behavior had obviously piqued her curiosity, and Riza knew that she had expected to get either a flat denial or visual confirmation before this lunch was over.

"Maes acted very mysterious about the whole thing; I was so sure that it was true...Hold on.  Do you mean someone's started this rumor about you out of plain spite?" Gracia gasped, alarmed.  "But, why? I know how much your men respect you; I can't imagine any of them spreading lies intentionally."  To her credit, she was genuinely concerned for Riza’s reputation.  Curiosity or no, she liked Riza very much.

"I appreciate your concern,” Hawkeye said sincerely, “But it's nothing to worry about.  I've gotten used to hearing the rumors about myself by now, and most of them are far less innocent.  My having a tattoo wouldn’t exactly damage my reputation.  It’s not even against regulations to have one, so I don’t know why anyone would bother spreading such a silly rumor in the first place.”

“Are you saying that they gossip about you often?” Gracia asked, shocked and a little upset on Riza’s behalf.  Of course she'd heard speculations about Hawkeye’s alleged relationship with a certain colonel, but that subject was only discussed among people who knew them both well; close friends and subordinates.  She couldn't imagine anyone lying maliciously about such a dedicated and talented fellow soldier.

"Oh, I’m not the only subject of gossip; everyone is fair game.  It happens more often when things are quiet—they’d go crazy with boredom otherwise.  I'm sure that they've already got a betting pool started on what my tattoo is of and where,” Hawkeye said lightly.  “The colonel will have put a week's paycheck on something embarrassing, I have no doubt."  And he would, too, if this _were_ a real rumor going around, just to keep up appearances.

"You should tell them you do have one when they ask, just to mess with them," Gracia giggled. 

"Now there is an idea," Hawkeye replied, smiling more genuinely.  Really, though, it would be amusing.

"It should be something completely out of character, too," Gracia gushed, warming to her idea. "Like...like a skull and crossbones wrapped in barbed wire!  With a snake coming out of one of the eyes! No, wait, that's much too masculine.  Oh, what’s a good girly image? Maybe like a rose or a heart or something?  Or some sort of cutesy little animal? Like a bird or a butterfly?" 

"But then they'd insist I show it to everyone," Hawkeye laughed, amused by her friend's sudden enthusiasm. 

"True...but you could have a credible temporary one done in henna or cosmetics or the right kind of printing ink.  And then put it somewhere innocuous, like on your ankle or your shoulder, that you wouldn’t mind showing people." Hawkeye suppressed a full-body shudder.  Of course Gracia had no way of knowing that her back was not an innocuous area and must remain covered at all costs.  "Still, I wonder what the colonel meant about not knowing whether you’d gotten a tattoo before you and he parted ways,” Gracia said, confused.  “I thought it maybe it meant before you transferred from his team.  I wondered whether you’d finally accepted that post at Briggs, but I hadn’t found a chance to ask him.”

“No, I wouldn’t transfer willingly.  I do admire Major General Armstrong, and I hear she is an excellent commanding officer, but I don’t care for the cold in Briggs one bit.  I wouldn’t go if given a choice in the matter.”

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Gracia smiled, relieved, at the Lieutenant.  “I was afraid I'd lost my only female friend at these dull military functions they make our boys go to." Most of the other female officers Gracia had met were incredibly dull women.  She was extremely and sincerely pleased that Hawkeye planned to stick around. “But…that still doesn’t explain what Roy meant about something happening with you while he was away,” she said, with furrowed brow.  Hawkeye swore mentally.  When was she going to let this go?

"Hm...well, he did take a take a few personal days last week," she lied smoothly.  "That _must_ be what he was referring to.  I spend so much time at the office; there would really be no chance of my getting a tattoo without him hearing about it unless it happened when he was away.  Knowing Lt. Colonel Hughes, he'll have Colonel Mustang convinced that I have a secret lover whose name I've emblazoned over my heart or something," she laughed.  "Although how in the world Hughes is supposed to have seen this tattoo of mine when the colonel hasn’t, I can't imagine.”

Unaware of exactly how that had sounded (and especially to a woman who was actively looking for confirmation of romantic attachment), this time Hawkeye did not catch the expression of excited interest cross Gracia’s face.

“So irrational.  They really are over grown children," Gracia said lightly, though internally she was jumping up and down with glee. There _was_ something between those two, she just knew it.  Riza had just implied that her superior officer would be more likely to have seen her body and any hidden markings thereon than any other man of her acquaintance, hadn’t she?  That was proof enough for Gracia.  "OH!  I know!  A State Alchemist title!” she exclaimed, and clasped her hands together.  It was Hawkeye’s turn to look confused.

“Sorry?”

“For the fake tattoo!” she chirped, eyes shining.  “You could get one of a name that sounds like a State Alchemist’s title but hasn't actually been assigned to anyone.  You know how they all go…something like the Blazing Arrow Alchemist or the Dancing Sword Alchemist.  Then all those boys of yours will go crazy trying to find out who it is and how you know him and why they’ve never heard of him."  Geez, she was diabolical, Hawkeye thought.

“The Dancing Sword?” she snorted.  “That actually makes me think of Major General Armstrong.  It would be a great title for her, if she were a State Alchemist.  Swords are the Ice Queen’s weapon of choice, and she’s very impressive in action.  Have you ever met her?”

“Olivier Armstrong, right?  No, I haven’t met her; just seen pictures of her.  I do know her brother Alex, though.  Are they anything alike, personality-wise?”

Their food arrived at last, and Riza managed to steer the topic of conversation into the less dangerous waters of the Armstrong family tree.  Gracia was very entertained by the story of Havoc’s disastrous date with Armstrong’s littlest sister.  Riza was careful to keep away from any mention of body modification of any kind.  Gracia, satisfied that Hawkeye’s miniscule slip of the tongue proved that she and Mustang were closer than they admitted in public, accepted the change in topic without noticing that she was being managed.

After lunch, Lieutenant Hawkeye returned to the office tense and mentally exhausted.  Her teammates felt the change in the atmosphere the second she walked in, and suddenly found themselves much too busy to bother with their normal afternoon banter.  She was glad for the unusual silence in the office:  she needed the quiet time to work out how to deal with the two men in possession of her deepest secret.

* * *

 

A week later, Hughes entered his locked office to find a paper target from the firing range propped up in his desk chair.  Someone had carefully drawn a pair of square-rimmed glasses where its eyes would be, and across the top of the paper, the same person had written in bright red ink: "Loose lips sink ships, Lt. Colonel.  Don’t forget it again." All twelve bullet holes were neatly clustered in faceless black figure’s groin.  He screamed like a little girl.

And Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye wore a smug grin on her face for the rest of the week.


End file.
